Fraudulent
by pinstripedsuits
Summary: A short one-shot. Draco, after the war, is an empty shell without Hermione. And he can't face himself and his memories.


In the mornings, he wakes up without her and he remembers for the millionth time what it feels like to occupy and empty bed, the sun rises. It rises over the hills to reaches to the clouds; or maybe the clouds reach to it. In each passing day he runs his errands, reads his mail and have a sense of longing like lead in the pit of his stomach. Sometimes he wouldn't leave his house for a month. He hid like a bird with a broken wing, running from the fox. And the days pass and the birds chirp and he likes to draw how he feels. Scribbles that cover abused paper, faint shadows of beautiful girl, and _her. _It never stops being about her.

Draco awoke on a sweltering June day in a tangle of sheets at the bottom of his bed; shaking and scared. The dream that he had just escaped form was so realistic, Hermione Granger's pleas for mercy so real. He close his eyes, curling up into a fetal position, and two warm, fat tears dripped from his face. The girl that was long gone should not bother him. Yet she was a shadow in everything he did.

"Hush, Draco." She had told him once, while he had offered her a place in his sanctuary. In the ever changing room, that one place where he could feel safe.

The blond stayed under the covers of a his bed for another hour trying through gasps to calm himself down. And he closed his eyes, trying to remember the happy times. Before the war when her hair would run through his fingers in the middle of the night; when her warm lips would crash against his cold ones. And he could almost feel her again.

"Draco" She whispered it in the darkest of times. On these nights he held her against his chest and they would not speak, until now. The Room of Requirement was where the two wounded birds hid from the fox. Under the covers, drowning hands clinging to anything to help them stay afloat.

"Yes?" He breathed back as their chests rose and fell in unison.

"Say it again." Her eyes meet his as her hands traced his jawbone, his neck, the ribs that stuck out too much to call him healthy.

"You are the only one." He said. "You are mine." Draco kissed her, hard and warm until he could feel her kiss him back, just to remind each other they were alive. "Hermione.."

"Yes?"

"Don't leave tonight."

And Hermione nodded. A delicate hand rolled up the sleeve of the left arm, revealing the Mark. A sign of his task. A sign of the danger that lay before both of them. She lowered her lips to the ugly burn on his skin, just brushing them against it. "Remember this when I leave." She muttered. "You are not a fool, Draco. You are a victim."

It would continue just like that in his sixth year, gentle caresses at midnight then complete disregard for one another during the day. The chaste looks through library shelves. He couldn't remember how it started. It had to have been her honeysuckle colored hair, or the way she furrowed her brows while scanning ancient runes late in the night. He loved her only a little less than endlessly, and he was so scared to admit it to himself.

How much could he protect her? _Not at all_, he decided. He couldn't even shield the girl from himself.

So he continued the nights alone with her, no words. Just confirming nods and kisses and sighs.

But now the golden boy was alone, hiding out until the coast was clear. And the girl he loved was gone for good. And he saw her die. The blankets wrapped around Draco tangled with his legs and the tears started coming hot and fast.

_Mudblood. _She could have been a porcelain doll, he imagined. Aunt Bella leaning over and whispering nightmares into the little doll's ears. His own ears were ringing.

"We don't know anything!" She screamed. She struggled and Bellatrix rose on her feet, drawing her wand like a scabbier.

"I promise! Please!"

"Hermione!" Draco screamed. Hermione, Hermione, Hermione. He couldn't save her. He can't save anyone. Not even himself.

A flash of green light filled the room. The porcelain doll broke, it seemed, into a million pieces before his eyes. The girl went limped and cold, chocolate brown eyes staring blankly at the crystal chandler. And the golden girl was gone.

Draco had woken up from this dream, the one he had to face almost every night. He was a fool and would forever carry the name. He should have never loved her like did, complete and total endlessness.


End file.
